


Don't Get Too Political

by Balkanika_52



Series: Don't Get Too Political [1]
Category: Eurovision Song Contest RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Crack, Alternate Universe - Eurovision Song Contest, Eurovision, Eurovision Song Contest 2015, Eurovision Song Contest 2020, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Minor Violence, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:15:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 12,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24522967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Balkanika_52/pseuds/Balkanika_52
Summary: Two evil men (so far) are on a quest to conquer Europe through the kidnapping of the 2015 Eurovision spokespeople in an attempt to seize the power of European pop culture for themselves. A group of friends are tasked with a journey that will take them across the European continent in hopes of ending their evil streak. Will they succeed? Will they continue to be able to run their nightclub in Belgrade?Who can do it? Vancan.
Relationships: Vanja Radovanović/Duncan Laurence
Series: Don't Get Too Political [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1877320
Comments: 4
Kudos: 22





	1. In Too Deep

**Author's Note:**

> This is a crackfic/parody. Don't take it too seriously.

It was a rainy day in Belgrade when Vanja got the news. Being the co-owner of the most popular nightclub in the Balkans (and the second-most popular in all of Europe) was a busy job, but he managed to keep it together, if only to make money and keep people dancing to the greatest Eurovision songs of all time. Ever since Euro365 had opened last summer, it was packed every night until the early hours of the morning; it turned out that Eurovision fans were far too willing to spend money to drunkenly listen to songs from all the editions of the contest no matter what time of year it was.

Then again, it really shouldn’t have come as a surprise.

In this economy, Eurovision was one of the only joys the continent had left.

A sudden pounding on the door shocked Vanja out of his focus on the club’s books, and he hurried out of his office down the stairs to the main floor of the club before crossing it and yanking open the back door to find his business partner Duncan standing there, getting soaked by the rain that was so common in the Balkans during the late winter. “You’re not going to believe this.” He shook out the water from his hair as he spoke. “It’s insane.”

“I thought _you_ were insane when you told me you wanted to open up a nightclub where nothing but Eurovision songs were played, but look where we are now.” Vanja retorted, helping his Dutch friend with his soaked raincoat. “What’s going on now that you went through this weather to tell me? Are taxes on alcohol going up again?”

“No. Nothing as trivial as that. Valentina Monetta’s been kidnapped.”

A blink.

Then two blinks.

“How the hell do you know this, and how do we know she’s actually been kidnapped? Maybe she’s gone on vacation or something.” Duncan moved behind the bar and grabbed two glasses, pouring them each a few fingers of whisky before replying. “In _this_ economy? In February? One of the coldest times of the year? Not to mention _this_.” Throwing back the whisky, the younger man took out his phone and slid it towards Vanja. A video was playing on the screen, paused halfway through. It didn’t matter how much time was left on it, though, as the video consisted solely of two lines of text on a black background. The message may have been short and simple, but it chilled them both to the bone.

_Cancel Eurovision and get rid of the spokespeople._

_Otherwise Valentina Monetta dies._


	2. Arcade

“This _must_ be a prank, but it doesn't feel like one.” Vanja muttered, adjusting his glasses before he plunked himself into his desk chair. He had called a meeting with Duncan and their other business partners: Ness, who handled the club’s promotional matters and advertising, and Vogel, the mind behind all the music that was played at Euro365. “Where did this video even come from?”

They had already tried to find the sender’s IP address, but it was to no avail. “It’s like the sender doesn’t exist. No digital footprint.” There was one thing, however, that was bothering all of them: why Valentina Monetta? If someone truly wanted to cancel Eurovision, they could have chosen to threaten to kill someone far more significant--like Duncan, who had  _ won  _ the previous edition. He looked more stressed about it than anyone had ever seen, including that one time where fifty thousand euros worth of equipment was stolen from the club. Suddenly, the phone that was playing the video vibrated twice, making them all jump. “What is it now?”

“The video... _ changed _ . Now it says that if we don’t cancel Eurovision Edsilia Rombley is going to die.” Over and over, the video changed, each time displaying a different name.

_ Otherwise Helena Paparizou dies. _

_ Otherwise Markus Riva dies. _

_ Otherwise Nigella Lawson dies. _

The names changed constantly, until the cycle reached the start and Valentina Monetta’s name reappeared. “Do we go to the police? Or Interpol?” Ness paced around the office, trying to come up with some idea of what they could do, but nothing came to mind. “Interpol will laugh at us. We have to do this ourselves. But we’re going to need some help. We need to talk to the experts.”

Six hours later, the four friends were joined by three others, all of whom they had pulled some strings to get them to help. “So let me get this straight,” were the first words that came out of Željko Joksimović’s mouth before he even sat down, “someone is threatening to kill  _ all  _ of these people unless this year’s Eurovision is cancelled and the spokespeople are ‘gotten rid of’? Are you sure this isn’t just some elaborate prank?” Next to him, Marija Šerifović shook her head, almost dislodging her glasses. “This is no prank. Unfortunately, this is completely real. I just don’t get what all these people have in common.” The third guest, who happened to be Alexander Rybak, had said nothing until this point, having just begun watching the video loop its way through again, spoke up. “Vanja, look up Eurovision 2015 on Wikipedia.”

_ That’s oddly specific _ , Vanja thought to himself, but did it anyway. “What am I looking for?” As he scrolled through the article, he reached the section titled  _ Voting and spokespersons _ and immediately understood.

All the names in the video were people who had given the votes for their countries at the 2015 Eurovision. “I think I’m going to be sick.” Ness whispered, her face turning an unfortunate shade of green. Duncan nudged the trash bin closer to her, just in case she  _ did  _ end up being sick, but she pushed it back. “Not that way. We can’t do what these people want. We have to stop them, somehow.”

“There’s only one way.” Everyone in the room turned to look at Vogel. “Enlighten us, please.” A sigh. “We have to travel to every country participating in Eurovision this year and make sure their spokespeople know that someone may be coming for them. Either we save these people’s lives...or we die trying. 41 countries, 41 people. Simple.”

Silence filled the room as the plan was considered. Then:

“Someone get me a Eurail map and a credit card with a high credit line.” All eyes in the room turned to Vanja, whose mouth was set in a grim line of determination. “If we’re going to do this, we’re doing it fast enough not to garner suspicion and save Eurovision before it really needs saving.”

_ Before it was too late, not just for the spokespeople, but for all of Europe. _


	3. Country of Light

Three days, several thousand euros, and an inordinate amount of bookings later, Vanja, Duncan, Vogel, and Ness sat around a table in a café in Athens, waiting for their contact to meet with them to give them the location of the Greek spokesperson for this year. “I don’t like this.” Duncan murmured as he stirred his frappé, causing the foam to clump up in a way that didn’t look very appetizing. “I thought Greece was your top vacation spot. What’s not to like?”

“That’s not going to be enough to get this person to listen to us.  _ Or  _ trust us. We’re meeting in such a public space for a reason--we don’t know who we’re able to trust with our mission.”

“At least we’ve managed to alert two people already. It didn’t take too much to convince the Serbian and Croatian spokespeople their lives were in danger.”  _ It’ll take a lot more to convince the rest of them _ , Vanja added to Vogel’s statement, but kept it to himself. They were off to a good start, that much was true, but with only three months before the grand final, they needed to move faster than normal. “You didn’t order me anything? Touching, really.”

“Hello to you, too, Sakis. Do you have the information we need or not?” A single, slim manila envelope was placed on the table in response. “I expect payment will be sent to the usual account in five to seven business days?” When he received a single, sharp nod, the informant nodded back and swept out of the café, leaving it as quickly as he had come. “Alright. Let’s see who we have to save today.” Ness opened the file, scanned it, and passed it to Vogel, who did the same before passing it to Duncan. Eventually, it got to Vanja, who took one look, memorized the name and address, and snapped the file shut. “Let’s go find ourselves a spokesperson, shall we?”

An hour later, the four parked outside of the recording studio that was listed in the file they were given and debated over how to engage. “I still think booking a session and then going in is our best shot.”

“Need I remind you that we’re on a budget? Breaking in is the way to go. Unless someone wants to try and smooth-talk their way in-”

“Guys!” Duncan half-yelled, shutting his friends up. “There’s an easier way to do this. I’ll go in and use my clout as the reigning Eurovision winner to get access to the studio and warn our spokesperson.” It may not have been a perfect idea, but it was the best idea any of them could have come up with, although the use of the word  _ clout _ was, at best, questionable. “See you in twenty.” He called behind him as he exited the car and walked towards the main entrance.

Twenty minutes passed. Then thirty. Around the fifty-minute mark, they started to get nervous. “Is he dead? Did someone kill him the moment he stepped foot in that building?” Vogel grabbed the binoculars they had stashed in the glove compartment and used them to get a better look at the main entrance. “Wait...he’s at the door. He has a box. He’s  _ laughing _ ? What happened in there?”

“What’s in the box? Please tell me it’s not body parts or someone’s head.” Vanja demanded as soon as Duncan opened the passenger side door. “What?! No! It’s baklava. Want some?” As everyone grabbed a piece, Duncan continued talking. “You’ll be glad to know that  _ they _ know there’s someone out to get them. They believed me quite easily once we got to talking.”

Everyone in the car breathed a collective sigh of relief, although the noise was muffled by the baklava. “Three down, thirty-eight to go. Where to next?” Ness checked their itinerary. “Uh...looks like we’re going to North Macedonia, then Slovenia. Our tour of the Balkans is going quite well for us.”

“Let’s hope the rest of Europe goes as well as the Balkans.”


	4. Bigger Than Us

“This almost feels like home.”

“Because of the rain?” Everyone but Ness let out a groan at her reply to Vanja’s remark. “No, Ness, because of the political climate. Yes, because of the rain.” London had welcomed them like she welcomed a great deal of people--with rain. It had taken all of five seconds for the group to open an umbrella once they got out of the airport. Thankfully, their destination, a public library, wasn’t too long of a drive. “When are they supposed to meet us?” Vogel checked her watch. “An hour. Plenty of time for shenanigans.” Her joke was met with another groan. “Oh, come on, it wasn’t  _ that  _ bad of a joke!”

Duncan took this as a challenge. “Alright, then, everyone give us the worst joke you’ve ever heard. Keep it simple, but terrible. Ness, care to start us off?” He asked as they settled around a table on the second floor of the library. “What did the orange say to the banana?” It was clear where this was going, but Vanja replied, “I don’t know, what?”

“Orange you glad to see me?” Yet another round of groans came at the pun. “Oh, I’ve got one. What did the flower say when its mother died?” Vogel waited for a beat before finishing, “Nothing. It was a self-raising flour.”

“I hate you.” They continued to trade jokes until someone cleared their throat. “Excuse me.” Their contact had finally arrived. “I wish we were meeting under better circumstances, Mr. Norton, but we have a contest and a few dozen people to save. Do sit down, won’t you?” He took a seat at the table, folded his hands in front of him, and looked at the others expectantly. “Why should I help you? It isn’t like the UK has had any chance of winning recently.”

“That may be true, but I’ve heard your commentary before. Admit it,” Vanja challenged, leaning back in his chair, “you enjoy Eurovision no matter how well your country does. Besides, that argument is lost on me. Need I remind you I placed in the bottom three in my semi-final back in 2018?” The truth was often more persuasive than any argument you could come up with, something Vanja knew well and frequently used to his advantage.

A few moments of tense silence passed before he spoke again. “Very well. You’ll find our spokesperson at BBC headquarters. I can get you into the building, but it’s up to you to convince her that she is truly in danger.”

“Thank you. You’re making the right choice.” As Norton left, Vogel frowned, staring down at her hands. “What’s wrong? We got our intel and we can hopefully get to the spokesperson before anything truly awful happens.” Vogel shook her head, the concerned expression lingering. “I don’t know. Something about this feels easy.  _ Too  _ easy. We don’t even know who the hell’s behind this!” She shoved her chair back and got up from the table, gathering up her things. “I’m going for a walk to clear my head. Text me when it’s done and we’ve got our next destination in mind.”

The others watched as Vogel made her way out of the library in stunned silence. Duncan looked like he wanted to go after her, but stopped himself from doing just that--if she wanted to clear her head, then it was obvious she needed some space. “I hope she’s okay.” He finally said. “I think we all hope that, Duncan.”

If they couldn’t do this together, then there was no hope they could do it at all.


	5. Outlaw In 'Em

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to my dear friend and Actual Dutch Person @duncanlaurence for writing this chapter. Enjoy the ride.

After using Norton’s help to get into the building, it was a small effort to convince Nigella Lawson that she was in trouble. While it was true that the BBC generally failed to care about Eurovision, for once they made the right choice. In no time, Duncan found himself walking into London St Pancras station, leading the rest of their group to the train that would soon depart to Amsterdam. 

Their journey to the Dutch capital was largely uneventful. Duncan and Vanja split a pair of headphones to listen to music, Ness worked her way through a crossword puzzle, and Vogel was using Duolingo to teach herself some Dutch. Every once in a while, she would hold up the phone to ask Duncan for help with pronunciation, but otherwise their compartment remained mostly quiet. The group was well aware of the pressure that was on their shoulders, and the ominous force that was behind it all. In order to save all of Europe and, perhaps just as importantly, their nightclub, they knew they had to get to the bottom of the whole situation. The train made its way to Amsterdam Central Station, and Duncan was the first to set foot in his home country. As the others gathered around him, he shushed them. “Do you guys smell that?” He asked. Vanja gave him an incredulous look before sniffing the air. “Do you mean...the _weed_?”

Duncan grinned, and nodded. “Exactly. Welcome to the beautiful capital of The Netherlands!” Ness scoffed as they made their way to the station’s exit. “Aren’t you from Rotterdam, Duncan?” The man in question shrugged. “A village near Rotterdam, but yes. Still, I am excited for you guys to see my country!” 

The Euro365 crew unfortunately did not have much time to visit tourist hotspots or eat bitterballen, as there was the pressing matter of locating one Edsilia Rombley. “It shouldn’t be too difficult,” Duncan said hopefully, leading the rest of the group towards something that looked a lot like...a bike rental? “Edsilia is a big name here, I am certain we will be able to find her in a television studio.” As they entered the building that was, indeed, a bike rental, Vogel seized the opportunity to engage the owner in a conversation with all the knowledge of the Dutch language that she had. The others decided to let her do her thing as they each picked a bike that fit their size. “So we are really biking to the television studio?” Vanja found himself on a bright orange bike, located next to Ness’s rainbow-striped bike. “Of course we are!” Duncan replied, acting as if there were no other available option. “Now come on, I don’t want to run into anyone that might cause trouble.”

And thus, the group found themselves on perhaps their most dangerous adventure yet: biking through the streets of Amsterdam. While Duncan, who had years of experience, easily avoided tourists and people alike, the others struggled a bit more. “We don’t-” Vanja caught up with him as they reached the suburbs of the Dutch capital, “We don’t ride bikes very often in Montenegro.” He heaved, as they slowed their pace. Duncan laughed. “I’m sorry about that, next time we’ll just get a taxi.” 

“WE COULD HAVE TAKEN A TAXI?!” Ness groaned. “Come on, dude. We got a whole continent to save and we can’t do that if we’re all--oh! There’s the studio!” She pointed to a building which looked much like the others surrounding them: a big, old-style canal house. The difference was the large sign in the front that read ‘AVROTROS Studios’. “Great!” Vogel parked her bike and ran a hand through her hair. She was more used to biking around, and had less trouble keeping up with Duncan’s long legs that the others. Once all their vehicles were parked and locked, the group walked inside. A bored-looking receptionist glanced up, but did not pay much attention to them. Duncan figured that she saw enough people every day to not be impressed by some Eurovision alumni anymore. It was Vanja who walked up to her, but before he could reach the front desk, a low voice interrupted them. 

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Mr. Eurovision himself…” The group turned around simultaneously to find a man leaning against the wall across from them. Ness was the first to fully see him. Cowboy boots, black pants, panther-print blazer, and, last but not least, an unnecessarily large cowboy hat. “Waylon,” she breathed, eyes now fixated on the man’s angry looking face. 

“Actually,” Vogel piped up, “Jon Ola Sand is Mr. Eurovision, Duncan is just the reigning Eurovision winner.” Vanja smiled at her and shook his head. “Not now. True, but not now.”

Duncan took a deep breath and stepped in front of the group. Waylon obviously wanted to talk to him, unless Vanja had gained the nickname ‘Mr. Eurovision’ without his knowledge. “Hello Willem,” he said, trying to sound calm. He hoped that using the singer’s real name would put him in a power position. “Yeehaw, Duncan de Moor,” Waylon responded, smirking.

 _Right_.

Duncan had momentarily forgotten that he _also_ used a stage name.

He had just lost the higher ground.

“What are you doing here?” Duncan asked. “I could ask you the same thing,” Waylon replied. Vanja groaned. “Waylon, or Mr. Yeehaw, if we want to go that route, is there any way you could sound more cliché?” The cowboy singer shot him an angry look and turned back to Duncan. The Eurovision winner spoke up first, suppressing the urge to nervously fidget with his shirt by crossing his arms. “We are here to speak to Edsilia, that’s all. It is none of your business what we have to discuss with her.” Waylon nodded, but his facial expression did not change. “And you think you are just allowed to walk into AVROTROS studios unannounced? Oh, right, you can do anything because you won Eurovision, huh?” Duncan raised his eyebrows, but Waylon wasn’t done. The radio that had been playing in the lobby started playing a familiar tune. Ness recognized it at once as “Tick Tock” by Mariya Yaremchuk. 

“Do you know how many times I tried to win for The Netherlands? TWICE. Not one, but _two times_ did our broadcaster send me! And, god, Ilse and I would have gotten first place if it weren’t for the fact that we didn’t!” His voice was getting louder and louder. “And you show up, without any cowboy gear on you, and you just win the whole contest? Well guess, what? I wouldn’t have voted for you, even if I could have. Your song sucks, and I voted for Montenegro and Germany. No one even knew you before you were chosen to represent the country, and yet, everyone knew me, Waylon! A famous singer and more importantly, an outlaw!” Duncan opened his mouth to retort, but quickly closed it when Waylon took a step closer to him. “And you know what outlaws do with people they don’t like, Mr. Eurovision?” He threatened, raising his fist.

Duncan would later claim that he acted on a reflex, but that was a lie.

He knew _exactly_ what he was doing when he punched Waylon, that bad Mr. Yeehaw, right in his face. He had never punched someone before, and expected it to hurt, but his welled up anger and immense power from being the Eurovision winner provided him with all the strength he needed to avoid the pain.

His fist connected with Waylon’s face and he barely registered the “holy shit” from behind him before the singer fell on the ground with his eyes rolled back into his head. His hat rolled off and, coincidentally, ended up in a puddle of water that had been spilled by the janitor. The final notes to “Tick Tock” were the only sounds in the lobby for a few seconds. Then, the Euro365 squad all started laughing. Duncan, who wouldn’t hurt a fly, just punched the most awful person they had ever come in contact with.

It was beautiful. “That was amazing!” Vanja laughed, putting an arm around Duncan’s shoulder. “He totally had it coming,” Vogel said, and Ness nodded. “That’s what you get for being a cowboy who uses Eurovision to promote his new album!” 

The receptionist cleared her throat. “So, is anyone going to be making any appointments today?” She asked, nails tapping impatiently on her desk. Vanja figured this was not the first fight she had witnessed in the lobby. Perhaps Waylon’s “Outlaw In ‘Em” had inspired more people than previously expected. As Duncan walked over to her and started speaking in rapid-fire Dutch, the other group members noticed an object just outside of the cowboy hat puddle. “His cellphone!” Ness whispered to the others, quickly picking it up before someone else noticed. She showed it to the others, and to their surprise, it opened without a passcode. Vogel rolled her eyes. “Of _course_ he doesn’t have a passcode. Now, come on, let’s see what kind of dirt we can find on here!” Unfortunately, every picture on the cellphone was of cowboys or cowboy hats, and all of his internet history consisted of the same thing, plus the search “how to spell outlaw”. However, the phone chimed with a message from an unknown number. Vanja took charge in reading it out loud. “Good afternoon Mr. Waylon. We assume our previous message found you well. Edsilia Rombley will be at AVROTROS at 14:00. We merely ask you to keep track of her whereabouts for a few days. Thank you for helping our cause, and we agree that if she got 4th place in Eurovision, you deserved that too at your second attempt. If you want to reach us again, refer to this number: +7-691291616. All praise our true leader. FK.”

Duncan returned to the group, seemingly more relaxed with Waylon still out cold. “Guys, Edsilia will be here any minute now, so....” He trailed off as he saw the looks on their faces. “It’s a message from the people we’re after,” Vanja said quietly. Duncan gasped and quickly read it as well. “FK,” He muttered to himself, “that could be anyone.” Vogel nodded in agreement. “Indeed,” she said, screenshotting the message and preparing an email to herself with it attached. “However, Ness and I can figure out from where this message was sent.” “Plus,” Ness added, “the country code is from Russia!” As the girls took the cellphone under their careful eye, using the receptionist’s computer, Edsilia walked into the building. Duncan went to greet her and introduced her to Vanja. Together, they explained the situation. Edsilia laughed at first, but she was friends with Duncan, and Vanja looked like a trustworthy man. They would not just lie about this for nothing. “All we ask is that you stay on the downlow for a while,” Vanja explained. “We will be in touch with you as soon as everything is safe, but we just don’t want you to get hurt.” Duncan nodded and smiled at Edsilia. “You have my number, and don’t hesitate to ask for any updates on the situation. I promise you we will work it all out.” She sighed. “I understand,” she finally said, running a hand through her hair. “Thank you so much for taking the time to protect me, and to protect Europe.” She hugged them both, told the receptionist to cancel her TV appearance, and headed out of the building again. Vogel and Ness returned to their friends. “Good news!” Ness showed them a bunch of complicated looking code that she had written down on her phone. “The message seems to have been sent from Finland.” “But I thought the country code was Russian?” Vanja questioned. “Indeed,” Vogel said, “which means that whoever sent this is a Russian currently in Finland. Which means that we have to get to Kristia Sigfrieds as soon as possible.” 

The group took a final glance at Waylon, who was still passed out on the cold lobby floor, and headed out of the building. “Onto our bikes!” Duncan motioned towards their parked vehicles of death. He only looked slightly disappointed as the rest of the Euro365 crew immediately yelled “NO!” and stopped the first taxi they saw. All of them were certain that their next stop, Helsinki, was going to be just as exciting--but hopefully with fewer cowboys.


	6. Hard Rock Hallelujah

Two days after they left the Netherlands, the Euro365 crew found themselves in Helsinki, sharing a packet of salty liquorice and debating what their next move was. “Who can we talk to? Vanja, you must have  _ some  _ contacts in this country, right?” Pushing his glasses up, Vanja shook his head. “Unfortunately, you would be incorrect to assume that. This is actually my first visit to Finland, so I do  _ not  _ have contacts here. We could always talk to Darude...”

“Actually, I know someone.” Ness piped up, scrolling through her contacts until she found what she was looking for. “I met Saara Aalto back in 2018 and we hit it off pretty well. I can call her and see if it’ll help.”

The others agreed on Ness’ plan; it was the closest thing  _ to  _ a plan that any of them had at the moment, and besides, they had run out of liquorice.

An hour later, they had gained access to the YLE headquarters through Saara, who had helpfully provided them with press badges and information on where to find the spokesperson they had to save: Krista Siegfrieds. “This is fun! It’s almost like a spy mission, disguises and all.” Duncan said excitedly as he slipped on a pair of dark-framed glasses and a beanie. “Not much of a disguise you’ve got there. We can still see your pretty face.”

“You think I’m pretty? Aw, Vanja, you’re gonna make my heart melt.” The remark was teasing in nature, but it still caused a blush to spread across Vanja’s face. “I may wear glasses, but I’m not blind. Are we ready?”

“Ready. Let’s do this.” The four of them made their way into the building with their press badges and followed the map Saara had given them to a door that had a bright yellow  _ Filming in Progress  _ sign on it. “Should we knock?” Ness murmured, going so far as to raise a hand to rap on the door before Vogel stopped her. “Wait. It’s already open.” Her statement rang true; the door was, indeed, slightly open, something that was quite suspicious for a room that was allegedly being used for filming. “Let’s stay on guard. We don’t know what’s behind this door.”

Duncan prodded the door with his foot, nudging it open a little further, waiting for someone in the room to say something, but nothing happened. “Krista?” He called, but nobody responded at all. Pushing the door open all the way, the crew found the room in a state of disarray: papers scattered across the floor, broken video equipment, and a suspicious puddle of liquid that looked an awful lot like…

“Is that  _ blood _ ?!” Vanja stepped closer to the puddle and crouched down next to it before carefully poking it with a drumstick that had been lying a few centimeters away. “No. Soda. Still, quite disturbing. What  _ happened  _ here?” Looking around the room, all he saw was chaos, until he spotted an envelope sitting on the window ledge. “Huh.” He murmured, picking it up and examining it. “What is it?” Vogel asked, taking a look at the envelope. “Wait. Why the heck is there an envelope addressed to you in this room?” Sure enough,  _ Vanja Radovanović  _ was written on the front of the envelope in loopy cursive letters, which creeped all of them out, Vanja most of all. “Someone knew we’d be coming here. Whoever it was did this, I’m sure of it. Shall we open it?” Using Ness’s Swiss Army knife to cut open the seal (and hoping there was nothing like anthrax inside), Vanja carefully removed the contents: a Polaroid and a single sheet of paper, typewritten words on it spelling out a message that made them all uneasy.

_ When I said to get rid of the spokespeople, this isn’t what I meant. _

The photograph showed Vanja and Duncan talking to Edsilia Rombley, concern on all their faces, with Vogel and Ness in the background bent over a device they all knew to be Waylon’s phone. On the white bottom of the photograph was another terrible message, written in the same loopy cursive that was on the envelope:  _ This is your last warning. Do as I say or else the Finn gets it. _ “Do...do they mean they’ll  _ kill  _ Krista?”

“They already threatened to before, remember? At the start of this journey? Whoever ‘F.K’ is, they mean what they say. Considering Waylon was in on their scheme, it’s likely that they have allies all across the continent  _ and  _ in Australia.” Turning the photograph over in his hands, Vanja noticed a detail none of them had spotted: a red flame in the middle of an eight-pointed star. It looked familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it. “Anyone know what this means?” The others crowded around him to look. It took some time, but it was Vogel who figured it out first. “That’s part of the coat of arms of Azerbaijan. I thought F.K was Russian, though, judging by the country code of their number. Unless it was a burner phone.”

“Looks like we’re trading cold weather for the land of fire. Come on, we’ve got to pack and book a flight. With any luck, we’ll make it to Baku by tomorrow night and find more information.” As the crew headed out of YLE headquarters, Duncan felt something crunch under his foot. Lifting his shoe, thinking it was a piece of gravel, he found something else--something quite odd.

A single, coin-sized rhinestone.


	7. Running Scared

“Pass the coffee, please.” Ness handed the pot over, but, as Duncan soon found when he tried to pour himself another cup, it was empty. “Crap.” The Euro365 crew had barely gotten a chance to rest after the fifteen-hour flight from Helsinki to Baku, so they had turned to caffeine to fight their jet lag. Vanja had been hit the worst--he had fallen asleep twice while they were having breakfast, and it was only thanks to Duncan’s quick reflexes that he hadn’t faceplanted into his plate of scrambled eggs the first time.

Now, as he quickly ordered them their third pot of coffee in as many hours, he seemed more alert and ready to go over the map Vogel had found. “So there’s a gala tonight at the İctimai headquarters. Some sort of charity fundraiser. That’s how we’ll get in and find the source of the stationary, and, hopefully, whoever F.K. is.” 

“You know what this means, right?” Vanja didn’t like the look on Duncan’s face, and felt he knew where this was going, but he asked the question anyway. “What does it mean?” The other man’s grin turned wicked. “It means that  _ you _ , my dear friend, have to wear a suit. We’ve got a gala to infiltrate, after all. It’s all or nothing.”

There were three things in this world that Vanja hated more than anything: people who didn’t take ‘no’ for an answer, overpriced sneakers, and formal attire. Suits fell into that third category; he preferred jeans and flannel to wool blazers and leather shoes. After all, if you were going to run a club, you may as well be comfortable doing it--a philosophy that, unfortunately, did not apply to infiltrating a charity gala in order to protect the sanctity of Eurovision.

Which is why he found himself, along with the rest of his friends, shopping for adequate formalwear for the gala that night a few hours later. “For the last time, Ness, I am  _ not  _ considering a purple suit. It’s bad enough I have to wear one.” Dark blue, gray, or black would do--they were the most neutral, non-flashy colours possible, and the last thing Vanja wanted was to stand out any more than he had to. After what felt like fifty different suits, he managed to find one that wasn’t completely terrible: a tuxedo in a shade of blue so dark it was nearly black, with a matching bow tie to boot. “Well, how bad do I look?” He asked as he stepped out of the changing room, trying his best not to admit that the suit was surprisingly comfortable and had more pockets than he could dream of.

The others, who had all found what they wanted earlier, looked up and took in the sight of Vanja wearing something other than jeans and a button-down. “Who are you, and what have you done with Vanja Radovanović?” Vogel blurted. “You look like a Montenegrin James Bond. Except for the glasses.”

“You know what? I’ll take it. Being compared to James Bond isn’t the worst thing I’ve ever heard.” With that, the Euro365 crew wrapped up their shopping trip and got back to the hotel, ready to put their plan into action. However, once they got to İctimai headquarters that night, they ran into a problem: it was strictly invitation-only, and none of them  _ had  _ an invitation. “Duncan, I don’t think your winner clout is going to help us out here.” Vogel murmured as she looked at the security guard stationed at the entrance, slipping her hands into the pockets of her violet gown as she spoke.

“You may be right, Vogel, but we’ve got another kind of clout on our side. Someone needs to go into Entitled Customer Mode.” They all knew what Duncan was talking about, an attitude known across the world to be the hallmark of a person who subscribed to the mentality of ‘the customer is always right’, one that was easily spotted when a single, seven-word phrase was uttered. “I’ll do it.” Ness finally said. “But you owe me,  _ big time. _ ” As they got closer and closer to the entrance, Ness cracked her knuckles, determination hanging in the air around her like perfume. When the security guard asked for their invitations, she went into action.  _ “Invitations? Do you know who we are?”  _ Her raised voice caused the security guard to flush and begin to stammer out an apology, but Ness wasn’t done. “Never in my  _ life  _ have I been so insulted!”

Then, she spoke the dreaded phrase.

_ “I want to speak to your manager.” _

Normally, those words would have been met with disdain or a laugh, but Ness’s voice was laced with so much fury that the security guard looked as if he was about to cry. Instead, he nodded quickly and said, “I will send her over right away.” before turning to the next group of guests, allowing the Euro365 crew to make their way into the building. “Damn, I can’t believe that actually worked. Nice job, Ness.”

“I just channeled that one American who demanded we play Drake instead of ‘whatever crap this is’ and it did the job. But never make me do that again.” She replied, shrugging as they did a sweep of the room. Not as much security as they had expected, which was odd, but at least it would make their job easier. “I’m not sure another drama-filled distraction will help us sneak into the offices. We could always start a food fight. Or not!” Vogel added hastily upon seeing Duncan’s face. “You never waste free food, Vogel. New plan: We eat. We scope out the place. And then we cause a distraction, somehow.” Half an hour later, they had eaten their fill of the dishes available and attempted to access other areas of the place, but there were too many people for them to make a clean escape. “How do we get people to the center of the place so we can slip out?” Vanja muttered before picking up another piece of shekerbura.

As he bit into the crescent-shaped pastry, he happened to glance at the audio equipment at the front of the hall and had an idea. “Vogel, how easy would it be for you to hack the speakers and get people dancing?” Vogel followed Vanja’s gaze to the audio equipment, a grin slowly spreading across her face. “Give me two minutes.” She pulled out her mobile phone and opened an app, then started typing like a woman possessed. It only took a minute and a half for a familiar song to start playing over the speakers.

_ “Always on my mind, always in my heart.” _

More and more people started making their way to the center of the hall to dance, allowing the Euro365 crew to safely get out of the main area, up a back staircase, and to one of the offices on the second floor. A few seconds with a hairpin got them in, and it took them all of five minutes to find the stationery that the threatening message they had found in Helsinki had been written on. The problem was, nearly every other piece of correspondence in the room was  _ also  _ written on that same stationery. “ _ Proklet.”  _ Vanja swore, looking at yet another piece of paper with the coat of arms on it. “It’s a dead end. Even if we searched all the offices here, we wouldn’t find any more clues as to who F.K. is.”

“I’m not so sure about that. Take a look at this.” Across the room, Duncan had found a framed photograph of two men. One was the head of İctimai. The other was none other than one-third of the so-called Eurovision ‘Dream Team’ (and nightmare fuel for some), Filipp Kirkorov.

_ F.K. _


	8. Lullaby for a Volcano

When the Euro365 crew landed in Moscow, they were greeted at arrivals by two familiar faces. Their Russian friends Ana and Galini had come to help them in their quest to take down F.K., who had finally been unmasked as Filipp Kirkorov. “I always had a feeling Kirkorov was up to no good, but this takes the entire cake. I’m going to rip that stupid beard right off of his face.” Galini was angrier than all of them put together, and for good reason. She was competitive, sure, but to do what Kirkorov had done crossed a line none of them had even known existed. “After we kick his ass and get him sent to prison, we’re throwing a massive party at the club, right?”

“The biggest party the continent’s ever seen. Complete with all the snacks we deserve and a whole lot of vodka.”

“Not to mention a twelve-hour playlist of Eurovision’s greatest hits. How long of a drive do we have?” It turned out to only be a thirty-minute drive, but it still gave them plenty of time to go over their plan: confront Kirkorov while one of them was wearing a hidden camera, get him to confess to everything, and have him arrested as soon as humanly possible.

If things got  _ really  _ out of hand, they were all willing to throw a few punches. During their mad dash to Russia, the four travelers had even managed to get some fight training via YouTube; it turned out that Vogel could do a pretty mean roundhouse kick.

Half an hour passed quickly, and the crew soon found themselves in front of the Channel One studio building. Vanja figured now was as good of a time as any for some sort of motivational speech, so he cleared his throat before speaking. “Whatever happens today, I want you all to know that I’m proud of what we’ve done so far. Even if this goes awry and we don’t stop Kirkorov for good, I know that we’ve done some good in this world.” A few seconds of silence ensued before the Euro365 crew engaged in a group hug on the sidewalk, all their emotions coming to the surface. “Vanja, you’re gonna make us all cry!” Duncan said dramatically, pretending to wipe tears away from his eyes. “It was supposed to be motivational, not sappy, right?”

“Maybe a little bit of both?” Ana offered before turning to look at the entrance to the building, everyone else quickly copying her. “It’s now or never, isn’t it?”

“Now or never. Let’s go get our man.” The six of them entered the building and found, oddly enough, that the lobby was completely empty and silent. No receptionist, nobody waiting for an appointment, no music playing--nothing. The place was so quiet that they could practically hear each other’s heartbeats. “This isn’t right. Where is everyone?” Ness crossed the floor of the lobby to the front desk and rang the bell once, then twice, but nobody appeared from one of the many hallways that spiraled out from the lobby to help or confront them. Then, she spotted another envelope on the desk a few centimetres away, this time addressed to Duncan. “It’s for you.” He took it gingerly, said a quick prayer to whatever gods were listening that it wasn’t poisoned, and opened the envelope, finding that there was no message. A single key, marked with the number  _ 529 _ , was all the envelope contained. “Looks like we’re going to the fifth floor, then.”

They elected not to risk taking the elevator (lest it shut down on them, deliberately or not) and trudged up the stairwell. Around the third floor, Duncan started to complain that his legs were tired, to which Vanja replied, “This is payback for the bikes in Amsterdam.” He shut up after that, and they got to the fifth floor soon after, finding room 529 a few moments later. “I’ve got pepper spray in my bag in case of emergency.”

“I don’t think we’ll need it, Galini, but good to know.” A twist of the key and the doorknob opened the door to room 529, which turned out to be a studio space. The room was empty, but the moment they stepped inside a projector turned on, beaming yet another message on the greenscreen.

_So you’ve figured me out._ _You’ve forgotten something, though. There are two sides to every coin._

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Vogel muttered. “You can’t hide forever, Kirkorov!” Taunting him was probably a bad idea, but she did it anyway--it was time for him to get his just desserts. The lights flickered for several seconds, and when they fully came back on, a lone figure stood opposite them. It was impossible to mistake him for anyone else; his coal-black eyes could have belonged to someone else, sure, but his intricately-groomed (or, as Galini had put it, stupid) beard was what cinched it. “ _ Dobro utro _ .” Filipp Kirkorov sounded as if he were greeting them as friends. None of them bought it for a second. “Save your pleasantries for another day, Kirkorov. We’re here to bring you in.”

It was then that Kirkorov’s mask cracked and his true nature showed, the smile replaced with a sneer. “Are you, now? How interesting. You see, I’m not the only one that wants your precious Eurovision gone. And my friends are much more influential than yours. It’s a shame all those spokespeople have to die, but you failed.”

“As far as I see it, you’re the one that failed,  _ Filipp _ . There are six of us and only one of you. Do you really think you’ll be able to take on all of us without hurting yourself?” The laugh that came in reply to Duncan’s challenge sent a chill down their spines. “I don’t  _ need  _ to, as you put it, ‘take on all of you’.” A soft  _ click  _ echoed through the room, and it was with horror that they realised that the door had somehow locked, trapping them inside with Kirkorov. “Galini, you might want to get out your pepper spray.” Ana murmured, tugging on the door handle to no avail. It was locked from the outside. Kirkorov laughed again, his form blinking out of existence for a second before returning. “Oh, shit. It’s a hologram, he’s not actually here!”

“Of course I’m not here. Have a nice nap.” The hologram disappeared completely, leaving the Euro365 crew in a panic. “How are we getting out of here? What the hell did he mean by ‘have a nice nap’?” Ness got an answer as a  _ hiss  _ sounded and fog began to stream out of the vents in the room. “He’s gassing us. Of course there are no windows.” Wordlessly, Vanja took his jacket off and gave it to Ness, then turned to the door. “Uh, Vanja? What are you doing?”

“Most interior doors that are made of ‘wood’ are made with a paper center for rigidity. I can bust it down. Stand back, everyone.” The rest of them did so, pressing against the wall farthest from the gas-spewing vents, watching through the haze as their friend literally kicked a hole through the door. “I knew he’s been going to the gym more often, but damn, that’s impressive.” They got out of the room before the gas could take effect and were met with a voidlike, pitch-black hallway. “Power outage?”

“Doubt it.” Nothing was visible, not even the lights in the room Vanja had busted them out of, although that was probably thanks to the gas.

Then they heard Ana scream, the sound echoing in the space for a moment before it disappeared, just like their friend had. “We’re gonna die. Kirkorov’s gone off the deep end and he’s gonna kill us-” Vogel barely got the last word out before someone clamped a hand around her mouth, dragging her away from the others…and then everything went dark.


	9. Together We Are Many

“You’re awake!” Duncan blinked at the harsh light that hit his eyes when he woke up before he saw a familiar face above him. “Ugh, not so loud, Vanja. Where are we? How long was I out?” Vanja shook his head. “They took my watch. I have no idea what time it is now or where we are. I woke up about an hour ago, and there’s no sign of our friends. I don’t think we’re in Moscow anymore, though. We’ve been moved.” Sitting up, Duncan took in the room he and his friend were in: it appeared to be a private study, half of the walls in the space lined with bookshelves. “I already tried the doors. Unless somebody lets us out, we’re locked in.”

He tried checking his pockets for anything that would help them, but found nothing. Their kidnappers must have taken his phone as well as his ID, so even if they managed to get out of the room, he wouldn’t be able to get out of whatever country they were in. “Any clue as to what country we’re in?”

“Considering most of the books on the shelves are either in Russian or English? Not really. There aren’t even any windows we can break, and both doors are locked. Computer’s password-protected, too. Wish Vogel were here.” They decided to search the room again and see if they could find a way out to find their friends. Duncan got up and went over to one of the bookshelves, scanning the titles and finding he couldn’t read most of them, since they were written in the Cyrillic alphabet, but came upon one that looked out of place a few minutes later. “Hey, this one doesn’t look like it’s in Russian.” Vanja walked over from his attempt to pick the lock on one of the desk drawers and examined the book’s spine, tilting his head to see it better. “It’s not. It’s in Ukrainian. A language that, unfortunately, I can barely read. Maybe the contents will be easier to read--whoa!” As Vanja tried to pull the book off of the shelf, it activated some sort of mechanism in the bookshelf, which shuddered before swinging out towards them. “Now  _ that’s  _ some spy-level stuff.” The hidden door led to another room, where they found…

“You’re alive!” Ness shouted as she tackled them in a hug. The others looked no worse for the wear, save for several bruises, and were glad to see them. “Have you seen anyone else since you woke up?”

“Not besides you. I think we might be in Ukraine or Belarus, judging by the book that opened the secret door. And before you ask, no, we can’t kick holes in the door to get out. These are solid--we’re in an old building. There’s a computer in the other room, though. Any chance you can hack it, Vogel?” They went back into the other room and pulled chairs around the desk so they could watch Vogel try to get into the computer and suggest passwords if need be. “Is there a password hint?” Ana asked, fiddling with a letter opener she had found on the desk.

“Yeah, but it’s written in Cyrillic. A little help, please?” Vanja, Galini, and Ana crowded around behind Vogel to look at the password hint, which was only four words long. “ _ Я люблю свою страну _ ?  _ I love my country _ . That could mean anything. Should we start trying country names?” They plugged in several countries, but none of them worked. Everything they tried was a dead end--until Galini got an idea. “Vanja, you said that book that opened the secret door had a Ukrainian title, right?” He went back and looked at it to make sure. “It does. What does that have to do with guessing the password?”

“The password hint isn’t a patriotic statement. It’s a song lyric. Ever watch that sitcom  _ Servant of the People _ ?” Not waiting for an answer, she continued, “ _ Я люблю свою страну  _ is the first line of the theme song. So our answer is probably…” She typed in two words, a smile spreading across her face as the computer chimed happily, “Слуга народу.  _ Servant of the people. _ ”

With a few clicks, they gained access to the email program that had been left open, finding that most of the emails were written in Ukrainian--except for a few that were in a folder marked with the letters ‘ESC’. Those were written in Russian, and were all between two people. The first, their nemesis, Filipp Kirkorov, was expected.

The second, though, was less so.

“What the  _ fuck _ ?!” Duncan whispered as they all saw who Kirkorov had been working with. “This can’t be real.” It was more confusing than anything, but they were all still shocked. “Oh, but it is.” A new voice replied. They whirled around and saw one of the doors had opened, two men stepping into the room.

Kirkorov...and Volodymyr Zelensky.

The president of Ukraine.

“You know, I would have expected someone like Poroshenko to be working with someone as insane as you, Kirkorov. This is quite the surprise.” Either Vanja had a death wish or a plan, because insulting their enemies was the quickest way to getting injured, mortally or otherwise. He went on, seemingly speaking to the Ukrainian president now, “If this is about Maruv, your broadcaster brought that upon themselves with that ridiculous contract.”

“It’s hardly about Maruv. My issue with the contest is much more personal. Do you know what it does to syndicated TV ratings when an event blows in once a year, attracts millions of viewers and takes away all the attention from other shows?” Zelensky didn’t wait for any of them to answer before he continued, “It  _ destroys  _ them.” His reasons for working with Kirkorov suddenly hit them like a metric tonne of bricks, Galini saying it out loud before anyone else could. “You’re working with him to destroy Eurovision because  _ Servant of the People  _ got shitty ratings?” If he didn’t fear for his life, Duncan would have laughed. It seemed so ridiculous that it couldn’t possibly be true--and yet, it was.

Two madmen had united to destroy what the continent counted on to bring them together out of a petty grudge. At least on Zelensky’s side. “Let me guess.” Vanja turned to Kirkorov, trying to figure out his motive. “Mad that Sergey lost yet again? Or are you just still bitter that you placed dead last back in the 90s? You really do hold a grudge.” Kirkorov nearly hissed. “I put my life into writing so many songs for that Contest, and the  _ one year  _ that one of my songs has a chance to win it all, some pretty Dutch boy who  _ also  _ has a sad ballad wins! God forbid that Russia wins because of politics or whatever excuse they can come up with. So we made a plan to stop the 2020 contest from happening, and once it was cancelled, Eurovision would be gone for good.”

“It’s just one year. How do you know that it won’t return next year, even if you succeed now?” It was quiet in the room for a few moments, before Zelensky answered, “Haven’t any of you wondered where Jon Ola Sand has been this Eurovision season?”

The world slowed to a standstill as the Euro365 crew understood what he meant.

_ They had kidnapped Mr. Sand. _

Everything that had come before that had been shocking enough, but admitting that they had done something to Jon Ola Sand sent them into a rage. A streak of silver flew across the space, lodging itself in Zelensky’s shoulder. As he collapsed to the ground, the others realised that Ana had thrown the letter opener she had been toying with earlier--and scored a direct hit. “What are we waiting for?  _ RUN!” _ There was no time to waste, so they bolted out of the open door as fast as they could, going down the staircase they found until they hit what seemed to be the ground floor. “Look!” Lying on a table were their belongings, which they quickly shoved into their pockets before continuing out of the place. “Ana?”

“Yeah?” She replied, breathing heavily. “Did you seriously just throw a letter opener at the president of Ukraine?” She shrugged in response. “It was a spur of the moment decision that let us escape. No regrets on my part, especially after I got knocked out by their goons. How are we getting out of here?” They thought it over for a moment, Vogel speaking up first. “Does anyone know how to hotwire a car?”

“Let’s try to not commit any more crimes today. There’s a subway station right there.” Vanja pointed out. With that, the Euro365 crew went into the station and found a map. As they were pondering where to go, Vanja’s phone rang. “Who is it?”

“It’s Marija.  _ Zdravo _ , Marija,  _ šta ima novo _ ?” After conversing for a few minutes, he hung the phone up, a troubled expression on his face. “I don’t like that look.”

“Something’s going on in Dusseldorf. I have a sinking feeling that this is going to be the final showdown between us and our enemies to save Eurovision--and Mr. Sand. Are we even prepared for this?” He glanced up and saw everyone looking back at him, determination in their eyes. “We started this together. We’re finishing it together.”

Ironically, the Ukrainian song from 2005 fit the situation best:

_ Разом нас багато, нас не подолати. _

_ Together we are many, they won’t overcome us. _


	10. Satellite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was largely written by @duncanlaurence--the can to my van.  
> Enjoy the ride.  
> Highly recommend that you listen to "This Is Our Night" by Sakis Rouvas as you read.

Barely seven hours later, the Euro365 crew landed in Dusseldorf. There was no time to rest, so they immediately headed to the place where Marija had told them something was going down: the Esprit Arena, which, coincidentally enough, had hosted Eurovision back in 2011. “We’re heading straight into the lions’ den, aren’t we?” Ness murmured as the four of them walked into the place.

The hidden camera she had been wearing when they had first confronted Kirkorov in Moscow had, surprisingly, stayed on and worked all throughout their ordeal, so they had evidence of what had happened and all of their enemies’ crimes--and had sent it to Interpol the moment they got a decent Internet connection. Rather than waiting for law enforcement to act, they decided to go on and put a stop to the plot once and for all. “Sure feels that way. At least we’ve got a better plan than we did in Moscow.”

“Hey, that plan  _ worked, _ to some extent. We’ve got video evidence.”

“We also probably caused an international incident by throwing a letter opener at the Ukrainian president, but that’s another story.” Just then, Duncan’s stomach growled rather loudly. “Can we stop for a snack after we defeat Kirkorov and Zelensky? All this talk of international incidents is making me hungry.” Vanja nodded in agreement. “I would kill for some  _ kačamak  _ right about now.”

“I think we deserve a bit more than a snack after we defeat the greatest threat to Eurovision that there-” The lights in the arena, which had been dim to start with, shut off completely, save for a lone spotlight in the middle of the place. “Is.” Vogel muttered, finishing her sentence. “They live for drama.” Walking further towards the light, they saw two people up ahead, one of them with their hands outstretched before them. It was Jon Ola Sand.

The other person was Kirkorov.

And he had a gun.

Kirkorov was holding the gun with a kind of precision that revealed this was not his first time in this position. His large black eyes seemed to be unblinking and totally focused as he pointed the weapon at Jon Ola Sand’s head. “Mr. Sandman,” he growled, his voice low and quiet enough that it was barely audible, even though the Euro365 crew were no more than a few meters away from him, “man me a sand.”

Everything happened at once, and yet it seemed to happen excruciatingly slowly. Duncan knew that he had to save Jon Ola Sand, especially when he saw the Norwegian man beg Kirkorov to take it away (the gun, that is). Before he could intervene, more lights hit the stage, revealing three faces that looked somewhat familiar to him. Vanja provided him with their names: “Andrey Malakhov, Ivan Urgant, and Alsou Abramova. The hosts of the 2009 contest in Moscow.”

But that wasn’t all, there was someone on stage with them, standing in the shadows. The figure was wearing a white shirt revealing most of his chest and white pants. He was pushed into the light by Zelensky who had, until then, seemed invisible in a full black suit in the shadows. Ness could not contain her gasp. “Sakis Rouvas! What did they do to you?” 

Zelensky provided the answer for the Euro365 crew, “He wanted to win so badly in 2009, now he can try to prove himself again. I figured that there is no better way to get rid of you guys forever than with some good music.” He turned to the shaking Greek and shoved a microphone in his hand. 

“Now sing, Sakis.”

Duncan knew at once that this was it.

The final battle.

They had to end it once and for all, or Europe would crumble. As the intro to “This Is Our Night” started, he looked around the room for any kind of weapon. Vanja noticed one in the corner before he did: a long silver object. A crowbar. Vanja grabbed it faster than you could say  _ inje _ and handed it to Duncan. “Kirkorov is yours,” he said, taking a split second to put his hand in his friend’s. Duncan glanced down at their joined hands and then looked into Vanja’s eyes. “What about you?” he whispered.    
“I’ll be fine, Duncan,” Vanja assured him, “I will use the weapons God has given me.” He let go of Duncan’s hand and balled his hand into a fist. “Stay safe, my winner.” Duncan barely had time to register his words before he was running to the stage.

_ Take a chance, and take a hold. _

From the corner of his eye, Duncan saw Ness and Vogel charge towards the 2009 hosts. They were filled with a fury unlike anything the Dutch singer had ever seen before. If they weren’t his friends, he would have been terrified of them. Perhaps he still was. He did not doubt for a second that the hosts were no match for them. 

_ Time has come, so make a stand _ .

The time had come. The Euro365 attack had surprised their enemies, but Duncan knew Kirkorov would recover from the shock in a second, so he tightened his grip on the crowbar and ran to the stage. This was about more than saving Jon Ola Sand and Sakis Rouvas, this was about all of Europe. In this moment, he felt like he could take on the world. It was as if every person who voted for him in Eurovision was giving him strength. 

_ This is our night, fly to the top baby. _

Duncan was fast enough to catch Kirkorov off guard, hitting him in the back of the head with his crowbar. The man groaned and his grip on the gun loosened, giving Jon Ola Sand the opportunity to scramble away. Kirkorov didn’t care anymore, his attention was no longer on the executive producer. How dare this 26 year old skinny Dutch boy attack him, a Eurovision legend? 

_ Get rid of the old, take a hold and be free. _

When Kirkorov turned to him, Duncan felt absolutely terrified for a second. The Russian was taller than him and looked murderous.

Considering the situation, he probably was.

He raised his crowbar, ready for a fight for the history books. His second hit did not land as well as the first one, but nonetheless Kirkorov groaned as his arm started bleeding. Duncan went in for another strike, but miscalculated: Kirkorov took the crowbar from him before he could react, and he cursed as he felt the object slip from his hands. 

_ Don’t back down, just look within. _

Vanja looked up at the sound of a curse from a familiar voice. Zelensky was no match for him, despite the fact that he was only using his fists to fight. The Ukrainian president might have power, but there was no one to protect him now. Vanja was stronger, faster, and simply a better fighter. He knew he had to finish this quickly; Duncan might need his help. His distracted mind turned out to be a mistake, as it allowed Zelensky to elbow him in the stomach, causing the singer to double over in pain. He couldn’t lose, not against some actor turned president. As Zelensky was standing over him with an evil grin, he straightened his back quickly, using his head to hit the Ukrainian in the nose. His head hurt, but it was the right move. A scream erupted from the president, who clutched his nose with both his hands. It was definitely broken, but Vanja did not feel bad about it. He kicked him hard, causing the other man to lose his balance and fall on the ground. His head hit the stage with an awful ‘thump’, and he did not move anymore. Vanja saw his chest go up and down slowly, meaning he had not killed him, but he would not wake up anytime soon. He ran a hand through his hair, adjusted his glasses, and took a deep breath. The others needed his help.

_ This is our night, time for a change baby. _

Kirkorov smirked as he held Duncan’s weapon in his hands, and attempted to hit him with it. Duncan was fast, silently thanking his reflexes, but he was unable to avoid the wrath of the angry Russian forever. He heard the ‘crack!’ before he felt the pain, barely able to stop himself from yelling out. His upper body felt like it was on fire, but he had broken an arm before: this wasn’t the same, it was not as painful. It was probably a dislocated shoulder. He kicked Kirkorov hard, biting through the pain. The man hit him again, in the legs this time. Duncan fell down, now in a vulnerable position on the ground. Kirkorov raised the crowbar for an undoubtedly devastating blow, but Duncan was ready. He grabbed the crowbar as it was centimeters away from his face and managed to take it out of Kirkorov’s hands. Somewhere from behind him, he heard Vanja yell his name, and that was what gave him the final push. Using all his strength, he stood up and raised the crowbar. 

_ THIS IS OUR NIGHT! _

On the final note, he summoned all his power and hit Kirkorov with the crowbar. The music stopped, and so did Kirkorov. The man fell to the ground and did not get up again. On the other side of the stage, he saw Ness and Vogel take down the last of the 3 hosts without breaking a sweat. Vogel yelled a German word he didn’t recognize and high-fived Ness. “That’s what you get for being a tax evader!” Ness said angrily. The girls scanned the room for their friends, and after confirming that they were alive, quickly ran to Sakis. The Greek was out of breath and there was blood on his exposed chest, but he seemed fine otherwise.

Duncan did not realize that he was out of breath until Vanja reached him. He sank to his knees, feeling exhausted despite the weight being lifted off his shoulders. Vanja crouched down across from him, sitting so close that Duncan could hear him even though his voice was barely a whisper. “Are you okay?” He asked, checking his face for any injuries.

“I’m fine,” Duncan coughed, looking at the man across him. “Are you?” Vanja nodded, raising his fists with a small smile. “These have never let me down before.” Duncan laughed and shook his head. “If it wasn’t for you, I don’t know if I would have won. You gave me the strength I needed to go on.” The other man gently took his face in his hands. “You give me that strength every day.”

Duncan felt out of breath for a different reason now. He wanted to say so many things, but before he had the opportunity to do so, a voice yelled out from below them. 

“Duncan de Moor, I am here for a rematch! Yeehaw!” Waylon was standing there, cowboy hat and boots confirming his wannabe Western attitude. “Please, Willem, give me a break. I dislocated my shoulder.” Duncan groaned as he sat up with Vanja’s support. “That makes it even easier for me!” He grinned, raising his fist.

“I don’t think so,” said a third voice, and out of the darkness emerged a man familiar to all those on the stage (except maybe Sakis). Waylon spun around, his slow movements proving Duncan’s suspicion that he was intoxicated. The new man was wearing a purple suit with a white shirt underneath. The top buttons were opened, revealing a tattoo of a large rose on his neck. “Douwe Bob?” Ness whispered to Vogel, who nodded. 

“Douwe?” Waylon said, surprised, confirming their suspicions. “What on earth are you doing here?” Douwe ran a hand through his hair and shrugged. “I have a bar here, and I saw you walk past it, looking a little...well, like crap. I decided to follow you to make sure everything was alright. Which it  _ clearly _ is not.”

Duncan realized how insane the whole stage must look. Five people were passed out, there was a bloody crowbar, a gun, four club owners were bloody and sweaty, and for some reason Sakis Rouvas was there. He assumed Jon Ola Sand had run off, as the man was nowhere to be seen. 

“You wanna take his place, Bob?” Waylon laughed, his attention now focused on the Slow Down singer. “I can trade one bisexual Dutch singer for the other, doesn’t matter.”

Douwe laughed and rolled up his sleeves. “Go for it. But realize that this might be a big mistake.” 

“It’s a battle of the yeehaws,” Vogel said, in awe of what she was about to witness. And a battle of the yeehaws it was.

Except Waylon was already stumbling before he even got hit, and Douwe had just happened to have taken up kickboxing this month. Using his enormous cowboy hat as a weapon, Waylon managed to get in a few good hits. However, anyone witnessing the event could have predicted the odds of him winning: very similar to his Eurovision winning odds in 2018. Douwe easily took him down, and, once the man was on the ground, he put a boot on his chest. “You really gotta slow down with the aggression, brother,” he laughed. As he left the arena, Duncan could swear he heard a laugh that he had heard before. A flash of blond hair disappeared around the corner, but that was all he needed to know. Ilse DeLange was his friend after all.

The Euro365 crew stood up and exchanged looks. They didn’t need words to unanimously agree that it was time to call the police and leave. Vogel had left a USB stick on the stage with all the evidence as a backup--enough to get their enemies thrown in prison for a long time. As they headed towards the exit, Vanja felt a rush of adrenaline. He kicked down the door instead of opening it, causing it to fall off its hinges. Ness laughed. “Did you really have to do that?” she asked. Vanja simply grinned at her. If the adrenaline rush had come from Duncan taking his hand and squeezing it softly as they walked out, rather than defeating their enemies, well, that would be his secret to keep.

For now.


	11. Epilogue

“To us.” A week after they had defeated Kirkorov, Zelensky, and Waylon, the Euro365 crew was safely back in Belgrade at the club on their private balcony, the party they had promised themselves ages ago in full swing. As they clinked their glasses together in a toast and drank, a slow melody began to play through the club’s speaker system: “Hold Me Now” by Johnny Logan. Down below on the main floor, most of the patrons had found themselves partners for a slow dance. Time seemed to slow for Vanja as Duncan put his glass down and held his hand out to him. “Dance with me, Vanja?”

“Are you sure?” His voice came out an octave higher than usual before he cleared his throat and repeated himself. “Are you sure?” Before he could protest, Duncan swept him into his arms so that he had no choice but to slowly dance with him. “I’m sure, Vanja. I think I always will be. There’s something I have to tell you.”

As they danced together, Duncan bit his lip nervously, unsure of just how to tell Vanja the whole truth of his feelings. “This is about what happened in Dusseldorf, isn’t it?” He blinked at the question, then nodded in response. “It is. We’ve been through so much together. The club, our mad dash across Europe, fighting the president of Ukraine. But when you called me  _ my winner _ , it...well, it set something off in my heart, you know what I mean? Something that’s probably been there for longer than I knew.”

When the song reached its second verse, Vanja spoke up after a few moments of silence between them, his dark eyes never leaving Duncan’s. “It’s been in my heart for a while, too, Duncan. Remember what the press kept calling us back when we first opened the club?”

“Team Vancan. A joke on their part, but still catchy.” Vanja laughed, a soft sound that was more like a puff of air from his mouth. “True enough. It started as a joke, but as time went on I wanted more and more for it to be real--for us to be  _ more  _ than a team, or friends, or two people who joked about being a couple but weren’t.”

Then he spoke six words that sent Duncan’s world into a tailspin and made his heart beat faster than it ever had before.

“I think I love you, Duncan.”

The only thing that kept Duncan from passing out was Vanja’s hands on his shoulders, and even then, he was having a hard time keeping his legs from buckling.

“You...you do?” He managed to say softly as he regained his bearings. “Wait. You’re not drunk, are you?” Vanja laughed again, but louder this time. “From one drink? You know me better than that, Duncy.” Duncan’s heart beat even faster at the nickname. “You’re right. I do. Which means I know you won’t mind if I do this.”

Time slowed to a standstill as Duncan leaned forward and kissed Vanja softly, one of his hands moving from the other man’s waist to cup his face. Kissing him felt not just natural, but  _ right. _ Like there was a piece of him missing, and this simple action brought it back.

“I think I love you, too, Vanja, but I didn’t even know you  _ liked _ men.” Was the first thing Duncan said after they broke the kiss. Vanja grinned before giving him a second, quicker kiss. “I like one man in particular. His name’s Duncan de Moor.” The sound of shattering glass broke them out of their happiness-induced haze, and they turned to see Ness and Vogel staring at them, a broken glass at the former’s feet. “Is Vancan confirmed?”

“I guess it is.” Duncan glanced down at his hand, still linked with Vanja’s, and felt warmth spreading through his entire body. For the first time in a long time, he was at peace.

“Vancan confirmed.”


End file.
